In the chambers of dreaming, where the night drapes itself with crow feathers
In the chambers of dreaming, where the night drapes itself with crow feathers,
A harbinger of the end weeps silently over the meadow towards eternal rest;
Waltz, waltz in the canvas of darkness that seeks its nest.
Though the philosophers of the golden age embrace the darkened knowledge,
Because their echoes have not pierced the abyss with azure lightnings, they
Do not lie quietly upon the pallet of stars that are fading.
Brave souls of the dwindling day, at the last moment, sighing for their transient glow,
Faltering virtues could have waved in the green harbor of dreams,
Moan, moan at the dimming of the dreaming brightness.
Apparitions that captured and hummed the daytime star in its path,
Have learned, as time started to retreat, that their effort melts into twilight,
Do not calm gently beneath the night's canopy about to spill.
Solemn spirits, on the threshold of passing, who with piercing looks unveil the shroud,
Ephemeral eyes could dance like shooting stars and revel,
Spells, spells against the light that has begun to withdraw.
And you, father of echoes, lost on the ridge in the sad tomb of clouds,
Now bind me with the dew of your tears to this tale.
Do not pass gently towards the bed of night that has just unrolled.
Waltz, waltz against the backdrop of darkness that sips its own light.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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